


Omnia sol temperat

by Lassroyale



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Erotic Poetry, M/M, Male Slash, Prose Poem, Romance, Romanticism, Sensual Play, Sensuality, Slash, Slashy, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written as a comment fic for the falloutkinkmeme on livejournal.  The requestor had wanted "eloquent dirty talk" and I ended up with something more in the realm of sensual poetry.  It's bittersweet, hopelessly romantic and subdued; the sensuality is somewhere in there, rolled between the words.</p><p>Arcade's poem is an excerpt from the, 'Carmina Burana', which can be found in the Author's Note at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omnia sol temperat

**-VVV-**

The moon pooled silvered light in the small of Courier’s back. The skin was soft there and lightly tanned; smooth against the warmth of Arcade’s lips. He whispered lowly, brushing words and breath gently over three raised scars which ran parallel across the jut of Courier's right hip and slashed downwards, curving around to his left thigh: the parting gift of a dying Deathclaw. _"Ama me fideliter,"_ murmured Arcade, stitching the words against the marred flesh. _"Fidem meam nota."_

Courier shifted beneath him, turning slightly to offer up a white-toothed grin (the sliver of a Cheshire’s Cat smile) like a crescent moon against the shadows of the room; though the shadows that lingered in his eyes and within the curve of his lips, were deeper still. His dark hair was damp, spiked around his face. The night air was close and humid. Arcade’s voice was a quiet whisper threading into the folds of shadow spilled across the bedsheets. His breath, soft and warm against Courier's back, was a brush of easy, steady reassurance. Courier felt the usual feeling of _something_ stack within him ( _rising, rising, rising_ ) until he thought he’d choke on it; until it overwhelmed him. When he spoke, his voice was tight with everything just barely held in check behind the dam of his teeth. 

“What does it mean?” His words were a mere scrape of sound, and even that seemed to bruise the silence which had settled heavily into the spare between their bodies.

As per usual, Arcade didn’t answer him - not directly. Instead he shifted his attention, strong fingers brushing gently against Courier’s spine. He pressed in, counting each vertebra as he trailed his hand up towards Courier's shoulders. Arcade leaned over him, dropping a light kiss onto a long scar that gouged a gnarled depression into Courier's shoulder, where Lily’s Ventibird blade had bitten out a chunk of flesh during a psychotic break. _"De corde totaliter,”_ continued Arcade, as if he hadn't heard the question. The words gathered fluidly on his tongue; they trickled from his lips and slipped off into the darkness. _"Et ex mente tota."_

Courier twisted slightly, so that he could look up at Arcade fully. He twined his fingers in Arcade's blonde hair, sucking in a tight breath when Arcade nipped delicately at his throat, his tongue hot and wet against the throb of his jugular. Arcade curved his hands around the hull of Courier’s ribs, pushing up, pressing in, lifting him; holding him. Courier felt something hot prick behind his eyes, and he quickly closed them against the enormity of what he was feeling. He didn’t deserve this, not him: there was so much blood on his hands. Arcade’s voice was a low burr in his ear, deep as the night and twice as complicated; Courier felt the sound resonate in the base of his spine and coil low in his belly.

 _"Sum presentialiter."_ The syllables dripped together in liquid cadence; Arcade grazed his lips along the underside of Courier’s jaw. _"Alens in remota; quisquis amat taliter, volvitur in rota."_

Courier heard himself make a noise that was yanked from somewhere deep inside him, the events of the last few days – hell, the events of the last few months - storming up to breach the surface of his control: Too much, just too fucking much. He opened his eyes, lashes wet with everything he couldn’t show when beneath the hot, wasted Mohjave sun. 

Arcade brushed a thumb softly beneath Courier’s eyes, licked the salt from the tip. He pulled him close, chest-to-chest, and Courier felt the staccato roll of Arcade's heart beat in countermeasure to his own. When Courier leaned up and kissed him hard, wrapping himself around the other man as if he were the only thing anchoring him to the world, Arcade took into him everything that Courier held tight within him and kept it safe.

 _Ama me fideliter._ Love me faithfully.

(The End.)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Excerpt from the Carmina Burana** (Arcade's poem to Courier)
> 
>  
> 
>  _Ama me fideliter,_  
>  _fidem meam nota,_  
>  _de corde totaliter_  
>  _et ex mente tota,_  
>  _sum presentialiter_  
>  _alens in remota;_  
>  _quisquis amat taliter,_  
>  _volvitur in rota._  
>     
>  ********
> 
> Love me faithfully,  
> Taking heed of my loyalty,  
> With all your heart,  
> With all your mind.  
> I am closest to you  
> When I am far away;  
> Whoever loves like this  
> Rides on the wheel (of Fortune).


End file.
